Chapter 5
FIVE
DION
NOW
He hasn't changed a bit. From the tracksuit and trainers he's wearing down to the floppy hair style that has his hair falling in those alarmingly blue eyes, it’s the same man.
I'd forgotten just how striking his eyes were, almost glacial in this room’s bright lights, but in the dimmer hue of the studio's front room, they'd been a darker blue, like the colour of the ocean, miles and miles away from land.
He's barely changed, but me? I'm a whole different person.
Of course he doesn't recognise me. Eight years on testosterone has reshaped the angles of my face, broadened my shoulders and deepened my voice. I’ve got a beard now and thicker, longer hairs covering my arms and a happy trail that really does make me happy.
Top surgery five years ago gave me the freedom of a body I no longer dressed to hide, and while I haven't necessarily lost weight, hormones and the occasional gym session has redistributed mass around my body in a way that is mercifully more masculine.
I've grown so accustomed to being perceived as a man that being misgendered is almost completely a thing of the past but I can always tell when someone is unsure or even just inquisitive about my presentation or my gender.
It's a squint in their eyes, a stare that lingers a little too long, a smile that does too much.
And Benji Smith isn't giving me any of that.
He obviously sees me as a man, so why on Earth would he even be thinking about . .. what I used to look like.
I should be pleased, I think, as I check my materials tray one last time. I should be relieved and bottling up this moment of gender euphoria. But I don't feel particularly happy. I feel ... Honestly, I don't know how I feel. I just know that a small part of me wishes he recognised me.
No, that would be stupid. That would completely change the dynamic of the appointment.
That would dig up too many things I’d long ago buried.
Maybe he'd ask me questions about my transition that I don't want to answer.
He'd deadname me and talk about school like that was a good time in my life because it was for him.
Or, God forbid, he'd maybe even want to discuss that night.
Or worse, he wouldn't mention it at all.
The best thing that can happen right now is I get this over and done with. The sooner his tattoo is done, the sooner he can pay and leave, and the sooner I can go home, cook Dad dinner, fold the laundry I left in the dryer and then disappear into my room and paint until my eyes grow heavy.
But then I roll my way back to Ben's side, taking the metal side table with me and I look at the words I'm about to ink on his arm and I find it difficult to think clearly about anything.
toujours mon amour.
His mum's writing. It's classically French.
All bubble-esque loops and a very, very slight lean to the left.
And it's familiar, annoyingly familiar. I know I've seen it before but I don't know where or why because what possible reason could there be for me having seen Benji’s mum’s handwriting. And why would I remember it?
I'm chewing on this the same way I do other unsolved mysteries that bug me — song lyrics when I don't know the name of the song, literary references I can't immediately pin to a book or an author, tattoos I know I've done before but I fail to remember the client's name or face — as I switch the needle on, grab a piece of paper towel and hold Ben’s arm in one hand, ready to gently stretch the skin taut and start work.
“Wait!” He flinches, pulling his arm back. “Sorry I'm a bit ... Nervous. It's not the needle or the pain,” he rushes to explain, “it's just ... I don't mean to be rude but are you sure you can get it right? It really needs to look exactly like her writing. Otherwise ... otherwise ...”
He doesn't finish his sentence and by the look on his face he doesn't have to. His chin quivers slightly and his dark brows are pulled together.
I put the needle and the paper towel back on the tray and pull up the sleeve of my T-shirt.
“Meet Mr Twinkles,” I say.
“Mr what?” He looks dumbfounded but still he leans in closer to study the new school tattoo of the cavapoodle I had from the age of four until sixteen. It wraps around my bicep, covering my entire arm and took me over thirty hours to finish.
“You did that?”
“Yep. Fucked my back up for a month twisting in that position for hours at a time, but it was worth it.”
“He was your dog?”
“Yep, my childhood puppy. My dad's really, but when he couldn't walk him anymore that became my job. He would always sleep in my room for some reason. Probably my superior taste in music and films.”
Benji laughs gently at that although he can't seem to take his eyes off my arm.
“My point is, if I can do this on my own arm, I think you can have faith I won't fuck up three words on your forearm.”
Benji’s eyes lift to mine, and I curse myself for not looking away quickly enough. That swirling blue really is very alarming.
“So shall we begin?” I ask as I roll the equipment closer to me.
Benji nods and I get to work.
We don't talk much while I'm doing the tattoo, which frustrates me as much as it’s a relief.
I have a million questions I want to ask — Have you just come back because of your mother's passing?
How long are you staying? Where have you been the last fifteen years?
Did you make it as the Premier League footballer everyone said you'd be?
Are you married? Got any kids? — but I don't ask a single one.
It feels like it would be disingenuous to ask a question about him when I already know so much.
Well, no, not so much. We only spent a year of our lives orbiting around each other and most of that was spent on less than excellent terms, but Benji Smith was somebody I was always aware of for some stupid reason.
So I'm grateful the tattoo is a very quick job. Fifteen minutes and it's all done, ready for dressing. I check one last time that I'm happy with it, pulling and stretching at Benji’s skin as I wipe it with a paper towel, then I move back.
“You're done. Take a look.”
Benji Smith looks down at his arm, and much to my horror, he begins to cry.